


Restore

by lxghtwoodlxve



Series: Reminisce [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Episode: s06e04 Book of the Stranger, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, I don't know what this is and neither do you, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Let Sansa Stark Feel Safe For Once So Help Me God, im gonna keep writing Sansa oneshots and none of you can stop me, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-12
Updated: 2020-02-12
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:15:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22679317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lxghtwoodlxve/pseuds/lxghtwoodlxve
Summary: Sansa arrives at Castle Black.
Relationships: Jon Snow & Sansa Stark, Podrick Payne & Sansa Stark & Brienne of Tarth, Sansa Stark & Brienne of Tarth
Series: Reminisce [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1655650
Comments: 4
Kudos: 29





	Restore

**Author's Note:**

> hi! hello! i can't stop writing 1k sansa thingies. please, darlings, allow me to indulge in another.  
> i must warn you for somewhat vague references to Sansa's past and various traumas and a mention of the absolute shit show that is King's Landing.  
> please let me know if i've missed a tag!  
> as always, stay safe.  
> \- t <3

Sansa was just glad she was out of the cold. 

The long ride up to Castle Black, with the constant threat of Ramsay’s men and dogs behind them, meant that they didn’t camp for long. Lady Brienne and Theon had taken shifts, before he’d gone back to Pyke, and then it was just Lady Brienne and Podrick. They were pleasant company; Podrick was soft-spoken and gentle and would sing to her when she woke up in a cold sweat, and Lady Brienne reminded her of her mother in a fierce, protective way. They’d put rudimentary poultices on her wounds, and she’d used her sewing skills to stitch up Lady Brienne’s cuts, and Podrick cooked for them all, and it was the safest she’d felt since her father’s head had been cut off.

Still, riding into Castle Black was more of a relief than she’d expected. The gates opened, and the men stared at them; a lady, a lady in armour, and a squire old enough to be a knight; for men that dreamed of wives and warmth, they must have seemed supernatural.

And then Jon appeared, and she was hugging him -  _ she was hugging her half-brother, and everything was going to be alright  _ \- and then she was ushered inside, handed a bowl of hot water to clean herself, and Jon was making his excuses to give her some privacy. The water was hot, truly hot, but Sansa found that she didn’t mind it. She was grateful even when it stung her wounds.

When Jon returned, she had already dragged two of the chairs in front of the fire, hair finally drying in it’s sloppy braid, softer than it had been in months. He entered with his eyes covered by his hand, the other occupied with a small wooden tray with two steaming bowls, and only removed it once she gave her approval. It was ridiculous enough to warm Sansa: s he took the bowl of soup. Jon returned her grateful smile with a pleased one of his own.

They chatted as she fed herself. Jon only ate half his bowl - Sansa suspected that he’d already eaten, but was joining her to be polite - and he gave the final half to her, which she demolished. He announced that they were preparing rooms for her and Brienne and Podrick, and when he realised that she was still hungry, went to get her some bread. 

He returned quickly, and Sansa found that she couldn’t help herself. 

“Theon lives, Jon.”

He paused. Set the bread down gently, took several deep breaths. Sansa could see his resolve to not shout, to not make sudden moves or touch her without her consent. It was more than she’d hoped for, even in the face of such news.

“Theon lives,” she repeated. “He helped me escape from the Boltons.”

Jon looked at her then, unable to mask the raw vulnerability. Sansa found that she was glad of it. “He… what?”

“You should have seen him. His mind, body, and soul, all broken, and yet he risked his life to save mine. He almost died for me, and then he left.”

“He left? Where could he go?”

Sansa’s mouth twisted unbidden, more of a grimace than a smile. “To Pyke. To his home.”

“You almost sound as if you forgive him.”

“I do.”

“He killed Bran! He killed Rickon!” Jon tempered his reaction as best he could, but the words still exploded out of him. Sansa almost didn’t flinch. “He robbed us of our home and you  _ forgive  _ him?”

“He didn’t kill them, Jon.” Sansa grabbed the bread, just for something to hold, and tore off a chunk. “He didn’t. He told me himself - it was just two farm boys. He burnt the bodies so that they wouldn’t be recognised.”

“He…?” Jon was aghast. “He killed children, Sansa. I still cannot forgive him.”

“Compared to what I’ve witnessed, I think that killing two boys to protect the ones he’d sworn fealty to is almost honourable.” Sansa shot back. Jon blinked at her. “In King’s Landing I saw butchery. I saw women and children raped and men tortured, whole families starved until they were nothing more than piles of bone. Saw cruelty I never imagined could exist.”

Jon looked almost abashed. There was no response for a long, long moment, but his eyes glistened. 

“I cannot... I can’t begin to understand what you’ve suffered. Truly, I can't. But Theon, he was. He was our brother in all but name. Don’t hate me, Sansa, please, but I can’t forgive him. Not yet.”

Sansa nodded. They gripped each other’s hands, shared in the other’s grief. 

Eventually, they’d take Winterfell. They’d take their home, when they both had their strength back, but Jon would never claim the Lord’s seat. That was Sansa’s alone, as the eldest trueborn Stark still remaining. 

After the decision, Jon took her gently, oh so gently, by the hand, and showed her to her chambers - a small affair, indeed, but it was well lit and right beside Jon’s own. 

(Large, grand rooms reminded her of King’s Landing, and dark ones of Ramsay. This was stone, of course, not unlike Winterfell, but everything was soft and warm, the coals in the fire glowing gently.)

She hid her disappointment when Jon left immediately. It was only a short while of Sansa staring into nothingness before both Brienne and Podrick were knocking gently at the door -  _ tap tap, tap tap, tap tap tap,  _ as they’d agreed - and she was letting them in, their arms full of furs and straw and candles. 

“I’m taking the first watch, m’lady,” Pod insisted. Brienne cuffed him surprisingly gently on the shoulder for his impertinence, but Sansa didn’t mind. She helped them drag some straw and furs into two piles, one outside the door and one at the foot of the small bed. Pod settled outside quickly, and his gentle humming floated past the gaps in the closed door. 

Brienne sat in the hard wooden chair at the table, sword at her hip, until Sansa wanted to change into some of the smallclothes that Jon had left her. They were men’s, of course, one set for each of them, but they were clean and had kept warm amidst the furs on the bed, and Brienne chuckled slightly at Sansa’s confusion. 

Brienne’s hands, though calloused, were gentle as she helped Sansa out of her stained dress. Somehow, Brienne had managed to sneak a small tray of the Maester’s supplies into the room, and they were able to dress her wounds properly. 

(She doubted that some of them would ever heal.)

It was late, the moon high in the sky, before Sansa was finished, but Brienne was injured, too, and conversation flowed between them, low and comforting.

Brienne was starting to shift around in her armor, and Podrick had fallen quiet outside. Brienne smiled at her offer and then directed her, voice soft, as Sansa’s shaking fingers helped her disrobe. Brienne, it turned out, was as scarred as she was, but her body was hard with both use and misuse, broad and muscular. Sansa, with her soft curves and slim arms, felt somehow both woefully inadequate and entirely feminine. Brienne had fallen silent, the picture of apprehension.

Brienne was mocked constantly -  _ Brienne the Beauty, the Kingslayer’s whore, the Maiden of Tarth _ \- and her face said that she was expecting it from Sansa, too, but that wouldn’t do. 

“Where did you learn to fight?” she asked instead, hands grazing over a half-healed cut on her back, and Brienne’s face softened a little, even as she stepped away to shrug on the tunic and breeches the steward had found. Conversation began again in earnest, and the tension was cut: Brienne’s demeanor had restored itself to fierce, gentle protectiveness.

Sansa fell asleep to Brienne’s steady breathing and Podrick’s gentle snores; to flickering coals in frigid air; to Jon's gentle tread as he paced in the room next door.

She’d never felt safer. 


End file.
